


One Sugar, No Milk

by CasualDragon



Category: Any Fandom really, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Basically I wrote this whole thing with Larry in mind, M/M, Oh, Well - Freeform, always the but, at the end, but like..., but., by the way, hence the tags above, idk - Freeform, it could be anyone, not in a very sad way though, one dies, read it, the major character death, there are NO names mentioned, these could be Bob and Tom for all I care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1932471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasualDragon/pseuds/CasualDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically, two men meet in a coffee shop. That's about it. Very sappy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Sugar, No Milk

_“Sometimes the most beautiful thing is precisely the one that comes unexpectedly and unearned, hence something given truly as a present.” - Anna Freud_

That’s what it starts with. This book I found on my table. Now I think of it. Not a book. It’s not a book, but a journal. I shouldn’t be reading this, but the curiosity bubbling in my stomach made me continue reading.

_I’ve seen him many times. Many times now. Everyday he comes for coffee. Simple. One sugar, no milk. I’ve got it memorised by now. He’s polite, he is. Always nice to everyone. And beautiful. I’ve never seen someone as utterly beautiful as him. Every single day he sits down. Sometimes late, sometimes early, but he will come. I am guaranteed of that. Sometimes the moon will drench his face in silver light and on other occasions the setting sun will make him glow golden. In broad daylight, his face will be hidden in the shadows of the window sills. His activities vary. He will read or write. Write like I do. In what looks like a overloaded journal. Leather bound. Classy, like he himself. Holding his pen with all the grace in the universe._

My heart beats in my throat. Should I continue? Dread settles in my feet, creeping up my legs, leaving a tingling mess. What if they found out?

_He came again. This time he was tapping away on a laptop, doing the Lord knows what. I’d love to know. I’d love to know what goes on in that beautiful head. Would he be precious? I’m certain he is. Would he be strong? Stronger than me? Able to withstand everything? Be my rock? Or would he be small. As small as I am. Breaking every time he falls. Would he be intelligent? He looks so smart. So wise, even though I don’t think him older than 20._

Who’s journal is this? The neat writing can be anyone’s. Girl or boy. The curiosity I felt earlier has doubled. I want to know who this is all about. Who thinks of another human being in such a beautiful manner. Who dares to write it all out. Who is able to be honest. Who pours their heart out in a paper booklet, whatever consequences it may have. If it’ll ever be read or never to be seen again after the owner let’s it go.

_I wish I was strong enough to approach to him. To communicate with him. He looks like an angel descended from heaven, the way his hair falls into his face, chocolaty and soft. The way his eyes flick over the pages of the book he’s reading, the way the sunlight forms a halo behind his head, the way his features become more prominent because of the shadows of early twilight. But I can’t. I’m weak. He’ll reject me, hate me. I’m nothing and he is everything._  
  
  That’s how I feel. This person, I want to know who they are. I need to know who they are. Who writes so beautifully about another, but so hateful about themselves. It’s sad. Utterly heartbreaking.

_He ordered tea today. That’s new. He had never ordered tea before. Also, I mustered up the courage to give something to him. One word, one word only. “Hi.” That’s all. All I gave and yet, he smiled. He smiled and said it back. I saw his eyes. Green like I’ve never seen before. Green with golden flecks, like God spent some extra time on them, to make them mimic the colour of seaweed or summer trees in a field. Trees coated in golden flowers. So pretty. And so full of pain. His smile was empty. I want to kiss all the pain away. Kiss those rosy lips. But I can’t._

Right then, my heart stops beating. I recognise this. But it can’t be… It could never be… No one would ever.

_The most beautiful sea, hasn’t been crossed yet. The most beautiful child, hasn’t grown up yet._   
_The most beautiful days, we haven’t seen yet._   
_The most beautiful words, I haven’t said yet._   
_(Because I can’t)_

It can’t be. The dread I felt earlier has crept up to my chest, making my heart miss beats.

_He wasn’t here. I wonder where he was, that he wasn’t here. Would he have a lover? Doesn’t need us anymore? Is he ill and does he need to be cared for? Or has he found another place, better than this sad spot? Although it matched his eyes. His perfect green eyes. Sad and full of emotion unspoken. Never told the world. But wrote it all down. Like me. Pathetic, isn’t it? Not being able to tell anyone, keeping it all inside and telling a book. A book which can’t feel, which won’t encourage you, which will let you bleed._

This journal. It’s so sad. So alive, at the same time. This person, feeling so utterly helpless, yearning after this boy. This seemingly perfect boy. I wonder… No. No one would describe me like this. I don’t have green eyes flecked with gold. Mine are dull and somber, like wilting flowers. My hair isn’t soft, it’s dry and brittle. My face doesn’t glow in the sunlight. I’m everything but perfect.

_He’s perfect._

That’s all. One page has just the words “He’s perfect.” on them. As if to tell me something. To tell me I am perfect. But I’m not and this isn’t about me. This is about a boy with soft hair, lovely features and desolate eyes.

_“Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood” - Marie Curie._

Marie Curie. This person has style.   
  
 _A simple hello could lead into a million special things. If only I could say hello. A simple hello. But I can’t even do that. I’m a pathetic excuse of a human._

I don’t know what to say. I let out a breath. It’s all so beautiful. So real. So honest. Like I know this person. Like I feel what they feel, but yet, I have no clue.

_“You are the finest, loveliest, tenderest and most beautiful person I have ever known- and even that is an understatement.” - F. Scott Fitzgerald._

The person who this is about must be so beautiful. 

_I could never grasp this boy. Who he is. What he is. He was smiling today. Got his coffee, one sugar, no milk, like always, be he ordered with a smile. And he accepted with a smile. I’d only seen him smile once before. Empty. But these smiles were different. They were real and bright. Like he smiled the actual sun itself. It warmed my whole being, seeing him so happy. “Nothing is more beautiful than a smile that has struggled through tears.” That what they say. That’s what Demi said. She’s right. It was utterly breathtaking. So… Beautiful. Nothing more than pure happiness radiating from that one simple gesture. A simple curve of the lips, but filled with an emotion I have yet to rediscover._

No. No! I can’t read this. It’s so, so sad. I close the book, a unexplained coldness replacing the dread I’d been feeling.

Then a boy enters the small cafe I’m in. I lay the journal on the other end of the table. The boy who entered is the boy who usually brings me my coffee, but he wasn’t in today. Guess I was wrong. His eyes roam around the room, s if searching for something. I quietly observe from my quiet corner, fascinated. Then he spots me and finds my eyes. I freeze and his eyes flick to the journal on the table.

He walks towards me, looking down at the ground. He is beautiful. I’ve always thought of him as beautiful, but now he approaches me, small, careful and cautious, he looks even more beautiful. Like a butterfly. Frail.

When he reaches me, he takes out a notepad and scribbles something down.    


_“Hi. That’s my journal,”_ it reads as he slides it towards me with a tender hand.  
“Oh,” I answer. Unsure of what to do, I motion for him to sit down.  
 _“Have you read it?”_ the next note reads. I look at him and he looks down.  
“Yeah. I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to, but… I was curious and I didn’t know what it was. I’m sorry.  
 _“It’s okay.”  
_ “It’s not!” I say. I read his journal.  
 _“It is. I promise. I can’t be mad at you.”  
_ “Who is it about?” I ask bluntly. I shouldn’t have, judging the way the boy freezes.  
 _“You,”_ is written on a next note, careful and neat.  
“Me?” I question? I didn’t mean to.  
 _“Yes. I’m sorry. I’m going,”_ the following note says and the boy collects his journal and stands up. Oh no. You’re not going.  
“Wait!” I call out. The boy turns around. “Why? Why me? I’m not perfect. I’m not beautiful. I’m nothing of what you described me as. Why? Why would you say that? When you are all that and I am not?”

The boy is silent. Eventually he gets out his pen and notepad again.

_“Because you are. I feel like you are.”  
_ “Why don’t you speak? Can’t you speak?”  
 _“No. I have been mute since birth.”  
_ “I’m sorry,” I say again, what seems like the tenth time today.  
 _“Don’t be. I’m used to it. Not being able to express.”  
_ “But you can write? Express that way.”  
_“I know. It’s all I have. But I really need to go now.”_

The boy makes for a leave again and once again I stop him. I won’t let him go.

“You’re beautiful,” I blurt out. And I mean it. And I hope he can see.

Silence. Deafening silence.

Then I take my own journal and rip out an empty page.

_“The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.” - Elisabeth Kübler-Ross_

_And you are beautiful._

That’s what I wrote on the paper. Quick, but neat. In my swirling handwriting. I hand the paper to the boy, hoping he’ll believe me and stay.

And he stayed. He smiled. And it was the most beautiful thing ever. And he stayed. He stayed longer than I could have imagined. For as I died, he was still next to me. Writing about me. The last paragraph.

_He is still beautiful. Today he drank his coffee. One sugar, no milk. It’ll be his last and we know it. Just like this’ll be my last paragraph. He loves me like I love him. Deep and pure. No speech needed. We’ve long ago decided we don’t speak anymore, but communicate in writing. Written letters on whatever we can find. I no longer have to hide my writing. I can show him immediately. In our shared journal. We write. We write everything. Good and bad. And we’ll be remembered. The couple who never spoke. Never uttered a word. Not after the last sentence. We’ve been happy. We’ll be happy later. Wherever we go. I never expected this. Never could I have dreamed about this. But as remembered:_

_“Sometimes the most beautiful thing is precisely the one that comes unexpectedly and unearned, hence something given truly as a present.” - Anna Freud_


End file.
